Page 10 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"Actually, I haven't had a chance to eat. Would Ms. Perkins be available for lunch?" I address the question to her boss. I'm not stupid enough to ask her.
"Nope."
"Absolutely."
"My treat, of course. L'Herron is just down the street." L'Herron is a high class French restaurant. By the time we get there, it'll be two o'clock, and their lunch rush should be over. Should reduce the number of autograph seekers while she conducts her interview.
After she shoots me one more dirty look, MacKenna excuses herself to get her things. Soon, Horace Bartlett is waving us out the door, his face wreathed in a smile. Don't know how he manages that with a cigar stuck in his mouth.
MacKenna's tight lips reflect the conflict battling within her. She can't let me have it, not with her boss watching from the newspaper's front door. But she's holding on so tight to her temper, she may very well explode.
To my surprise, she manages to keep it together until we reach the restaurant. There, we're shown to a booth with a clear view of Lake Michigan. Disregarding her "I'm not hungry" remark, I order theChateaubriand Bouquetierefor two—roast tenderloin of beef, accompanied by an array of fresh vegetables with a béarnaise sauce—and a bottle of their best red Burgundy.
After the server leaves, she jams her arms across her chest while giving me the evil eye.
Obviously, she still has it in for me. A simple apology did not work. And seemingly, neither does the fancy luncheon. Don't know why I care about turning her up sweet. She's a rookie reporter, for heaven's sakes. It's not like I don't have women clamoring for my time. Right now, at least three of them are eying me from across the room. But somehow, MacKenna's good opinion matters to me. So I decide to punt while I try to come up with a plan to changer her view of me. "You're not hungry?"
"I ate breakfast. At the diner. Once I got tired of waiting for you."
I walked right into that one, didn't I? Stupid of me. "I apologize. Again."
"Where I come from, Mr. Mathews, actions speak louder than words."
Me too. But, of course, she's not going to believe that. Not now. I have to get her in a better mood. If for no other reason than I screwed up. "Please call me Ty. You must have eaten four, six hours ago." She probably weighs a buck twenty soaking wet. So she doesn't have the same caloric needs my six six, 250 pounds of hard muscle require. Still, she needs to eat. "How about some bread?" I push the basket at her.
She grabs a roll, tears off a piece, and, without taking a bite, drops both halves on her plate.
Okay. So she's not a bread lover. I, on the other hand, love it. I grab the last aromatic French mini-baguette and slather it with fresh butter. Without being asked, the waiter replaces the empty container with a fresh batch.
"Would you like to ask some questions while we wait for the entrée?" I ask, after wolfing down half the baguette.
Her eyes flash at me, and not in the good way that usually goes with, 'Oh, yeah, baby, baby, baby.'
"You'd like me to start the interview? Fine." She fetches her recorder from her purse, grabs her notebook, slaps it down on the table. "Tell me, Ty, is the reason you overslept a blonde or a brunette?"
I choke on the bread. "What?"
"How do you like to do it? I imagine missionary must be pretty boring for you. I'm betting doggie style is more your thing. Or perhaps something more exotic?" Damn if she doesn't write 'How Ty Mathews likes to do it' in her notebook.
What the fuck? "We're supposed to be talking football."
She dismisses my statement with a wave of her hand. "Most readers don't care about such things. They want to know about your sex life. So tell me, the blonde and the brunette at Platinum Saturday night, did you take them home and do the nasty with them?" Her eyes spark with emotion—anger, for sure. But there's something else there. Something much darker, more primal. Excitement. Lust.
Some men might be clueless when it comes to women. Yeah, I'm not one of them. I know exactly where they're coming from. MacKenna is pissed I stood her up, but she's also angry about what she witnessed at the club. "You saw me. At Platinum."
"Yes, that was quite a show you put on. Half the people there could not keep their eyes off you. So for our readers, Ty, tell me, why did you allow that woman to blow you in a public place?" She's so worked up, her breath fails toward the end. And then she goes and licks her mouth.
In an instant, I'm hard as stone.
Fighting the urge to put that soft mouth of hers to good use, I order, "Turn off the recorder." The Texas twang I've fought so hard to get rid of creeps into my voice. Something it does when my emotions get the better of me, like now.
She turns off the machine, stashes it in her purse. "There. It's off. Now tell me, why do you do such a thing?" She should be detached when it comes to an interview, and yet, she's not. Although she's trying very hard to hide it, her voice's quivering with emotion.
The last few months I've grown bored with my personal life. I have nothing to look forward to except more of the same. But now this spitfire sits next to me, all wet, pouty lips, and red-hair down to one luscious ass, challenging me, sparking my interest like no one has done before. And the warrior in me, the one who vanquishes defenses with his golden arm, crawls out, aching to conquer this female. Ready to fucking own her.
"The question, little darling, is not why I did it. You're smart enough to figure that out." I lean into her, brush a finger down her cheek. It's soft, just as I imagine the rest of her is. "The more important question is, why do you give a damn?"
